Place of Forgetting
by Jevvica
Summary: Oubliette: n, French, from Middle French, from oublier - to forget


Summary: Oubliette: n, French, from Middle French, from oublier - to forget

Author's Notes: A little thing for Rhesa, who has asked time and time again for something featuring d'Artagnan and Porthos. I realize this isn't exactly what you wanted, but I hope it will do.

**Set after Season 2, with the idea that Aramis doesn't go to war.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan had no idea how he was going to get out of this one.

He'd heard the stories about the oubliettes of the Bastille. He wasn't sure this was the same, but then, he wasn't eager to compare. Rough stone walls rose ten feet above his head. The round room wasn't small enough for him to walk his way up it, but even if he could, there was a metal grate over the hole in the top. Which, given his luck, was probably locked.

He wasn't sure, but it had to be at least two days since he'd woken up down in this hole. The only light came from above, but it changed as time past, meaning there were windows up there.

His captors would drop bread down to him, but wouldn't answer any of his questions.

D'Artagnan shouted and cursed, but they'd only laughed.

Footsteps echoed above him, off and on, but no one acknowledged him.

He stood and paced the circumference of the tiny room restlessly.

He would have been missed by now. D'Artagnan had only been a few hours from camp when he'd past a large manor house. Two men had ridden out to meet him. A precaution, he'd thought, and a smart one, being so close to the front lines. He'd identified himself as a Musketeer and then...it all got a bit fuzzy. A sharp blow to his temple and then he'd woken up on the floor of a pit with no weapons and no answers.

He wanted to believe that someone would come. That his fellow Musketeers were looking for him, but it wasn't very likely.

He was one soldier in an army at war.

Athos was constantly in meetings, working out strategies, coordinating with other commanders. There was no way he could abandon his responsibilities.

Aramis was gone.

And Porthos…

D'Artagnan slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.

Porthos hadn't been himself since Aramis resigned his commission and refused to return. He didn't laugh anymore. The only time d'Artagnan even recognized him was when they sparred in the long days between missions and engagements.

D'Artagnan could barely hold his own against the big Musketeer, but he worked to learn new moves and master old ones. He did his best to distract Porthos, to draw him out.

Sometimes Porthos would forget himself and smile. Open up. And then d'Artagnan could do the same. Admit how much he missed Constance, how he worried about Athos, how war was nothing like he'd expected.

It lasted longer some days than others.

Then Porthos would give a quick two-tone whistle.

Just like that day on the bluff overlooking the spring and the Queen.

It was the only warning d'Artagnan would receive and then Porthos would be on the offensive again and d'Artagnan would usually end up on the ground rather quickly.

He looked up at the grating covering the opening. It seemed darker now. Night had fallen again.

They couldn't keep him down here forever. Surely they wanted him for some reason. Ransom or information or...something.

What if they didn't?

What if no one found him?

Oubliettes are where you put people to forget about them.

Constance would never know what happened to him.

D'Artagnan let his head fall back with a thump.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He jerked awake.

Something.

There'd been something.

Again.

A soft whistle.

Two notes.

A sound that had d'Artagnan immediately standing, expectant of an attack.

He cocked his head, listening.

Waiting.

For what?

His heart pounded.

The whistle sounded again, closer.

He pictured dark eyes and a dangerous grin.

"Porthos!?" Footsteps and then a shape blocked the dim light from the grate above him.

"D'Artagnan." It was little more than a whisper, but it was undoubtedly Porthos. "Hush." A sound of metal on metal and the grating lifted away. A rope dropped down and d'Artagnan seized it in unsteady hands. He was quickly hauled up and as soon as he was high enough, he pulled himself up by the edge of the hole.

D'Artagnan surged to his feet, fumbling and reaching for Porthos. The big man caught him easily, folded him into his strong arms. D'Artagnan didn't realize how badly he was shaking until Porthos held him tight. Held him together.

"Shh," soothed Porthos, barely audible. He pulled back and looked at d'Artagnan. His eyes went to the dried blood on the side of his face, but d'Artagnan shook his head slightly. It was nothing to worry about. Porthos studied his eyes, verifying, but eventually agreed with a quick nod. He handed d'Artagnan his sword, retrieved from a corner.

Porthos' eyes flicked up toward the ceiling and back to d'Artagnan. The manor was still occupied. They needed to be quiet and they needed to be gone.

Up stone stairs, through an open door and out into the dim light before dawn. Porthos moved quickly across the grass, heading for the open road.

D'Artagnan grabbed Porthos' wrist, tugging. He tilted his head toward the stables down the hill.

Porthos shook his head.

D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows, pleading.

Porthos frowned and eyed the dark windows of the manor.

D'Artagnan shifted impatiently. He motioned to the both of them.

Porthos glared at him and finally jerked his chin toward the stable.

D'Artagnan grinned and jogged down the rise.

He knew Porthos would see sense. They couldn't afford to lose a horse, not when it could be so easy to recover it.

Just as he'd thought, his horse and tack were inside the stables. He saddled it as quickly and quietly as he could and led it out into the grey morning light.

Porthos nodded and set off, strangely silent for a man so large. Across the road and into woods.

They'd been walking for several minutes before d'Artagnan realized how much they had communicated, without saying a word. He didn't even try to hid his smile.

A few more minutes, more distance between them and the house, and they arrived at Porthos' horse, stashed in a thicket.

"You alright?" asked Porthos. D'Artagnan nearly jumped as the quiet was broken.

"Yes." He roughly shoved his hands through his hair. "How did you know where I was? How did you even find me? What were you thinking? Does Athos know you're here?" D'Artagnan paused for a breath.

"I knew the path you'd take, wasn't hard to narrow down the possibilities…" The tall Musketeer scrutinized him and then took a step back. "You didn't think anyone would come for you."

It wasn't a question.

"No, I really didn't."

"Why not?" There was no anger. If anything, Porthos looked hurt.

"We're in the middle of a war and you have duties. I'm one man," fumbled d'Artagnan. "I was afraid to hope," he admitted finally.

Porthos looked away. D'Artagnan stepped up beside him uncertainly. Darkness was giving way to golden light as the sun rose through the trees. He followed Porthos' gaze out over the forest.

"I know what it is to be alone, d'Artagnan," said Porthos after a long, long moment. "Really alone. I've been forgotten and I've been abandoned. And I will never, never leave anyone like that. Not if I can help it." His voice was rough. "Understand?"

D'Artagnan nodded.

Porthos' gaze went distant again in the morning light, his eyes searching for something else.

Someone else.

"He didn't...he didn't abandon you, Porthos."

"Who?" D'Artagnan frowned and Porthos huffed a laugh, more air than mirth. "Who didn't? My father? Treville? Aramis? Which one we talkin' about here?" He turned to his horse, tightening the stirrup leather with a sharp tug.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth and shut it sharply. He was an idiot.

Of course Porthos had come.

Insulted by the mere idea that he would just leave d'Artagnan to his fate.

"Don't matter," sniffed Porthos, his lips tight in a poor facsimile of a smile. He pulled d'Artagnan close with a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't come 'cause of them. _I_ ," stressed Porthos, "came 'cause of _you_."

D'Artagnan blinked back sudden tears and looked up at the taller man. Porthos' eyes were dark and warm and earnest.

"I know I've been...I ain't been the best company lately. It's stupid. We could all be dead tomorrow. Don't make sense to waste whatever time we got." He squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder. "I'll be better, yeah?"

"You came for me," said d'Artagnan thickly. "When good sense said the opposite."

"All for one," intoned Porthos. "Besides, good sense isn't really our way, now is it?"

"No," agreed d'Artagnan with a smile, moving to follow Porthos through the trees. "I suppose not."

* * *

 _A/N: Now, onto that torture fic..._


End file.
